


Youth and Beauty Brigade

by IHaveNeverBeenWise



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, alcohol tw, death ideation, dysphoria mention, eve darling i wrote you twenty pages i'm sorry this got a bit out of hand, illness cw, smoking tw, using male pronouns but prouvaire is genderqueer thank you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IHaveNeverBeenWise/pseuds/IHaveNeverBeenWise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a Yule’s full moon tonight, and Prouvaire can feel the moon in his bones, wonders what it must feel like on his skin. Maybe it will feel like silk, or like knives, or like water or smoke. Maybe it will feel like raw energy pouring into him and lighting him up from the inside out until he burst with it. Prouvaire slips out when no one notices and when he reaches the streets outside, he begins to run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Youth and Beauty Brigade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> For Eve, who wanted Combeferre/Prouvaire sickfic for the miserableholidays exchange. Any mistakes are my own, of course. I own nothing.  
> The title comes from the Decemberists' "California One".

 

 “Rousseau was horeseshit. I usually tend not to disagree with him, but _On Slavery_? Even if man could alienate himself, he could not alienate his children, the philosopher says. Yet truly, it is no fault of the child if his father brings no good; a father’s failures truly may impact the child. Blaming the child is just…” Bossuet slams his glass on the table for emphasis, not finding the words he searches for.

“Now, then, Bossuet,” Joly swings his pipe widely and places one open palm on the wood. “You are disregarding the rest of the chapter. Rousseau speaks not of what is, but what should be – all children _should_ be born free, the right to freedom _should be_ taken from no one. None should starve or wear chains or be pained for things beyond his control, and yet, such things I see every time I cross the street. It is,” Joly takes a deep breath of smoke and passes the pipe around, “an imperfect world.”

“People must become free,” Bossuet says firmly, if tipsily. “Freedom ought _not_ be taken away, the free should be each and every person. Man ought establish his own wise laws, -“

“-and only then will the revolution be complete,” Grantaire finishes the almost-quote, but there is a bitter quality to his voice.  He opens his mouth to say more, but Prouvaire rests a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he says no more.

The candle in the center of the table spills wax slowly as it melts, the light flickering and sending shadows creeping to the corners. The yellow light reflects off of bottles and is muted by smoke and it is all, Prouvaire decides, quite beautiful.  Joly is giggling, hand over his mouth and cane forgotten on the floor. Bossuet has one arm flung around Grantaire’s shoulders, both of them red-cheeked and smiling; for once, Grantaire has shed his cloak of sadness, even if only a second.

Combeferre strides in, greatcoat pulled tightly around himself, looking quite cold. The smoke parts around him and he wrinkles his nose at the smell for a moment, before relaxing and making his way through the dim room until he stands behind Joly.

“Good evening, Combeferre,” Prouvaire greets him quietly, and is promptly drowned out by Bossuet’s bellow.

“Combeferre! Come, sit, make merry! There is snow in the streets and wine in the bottles! Spiced, even!” He shakes the bottle next to the candle for emphasis, and scoots over, accidentally shoving Joly to the floor. Joly, for his part, howls with laughter and stumbles to his feet, and Combeferre plucks the pipe from Joly’s fingers for himself. Prouvaire will take it back later, when Combeferre is not looking, but for now, he reaches out and takes Combeferre’s hand, pressing it with a smile. Combeferre’s eyes soften behind his glasses and he rubs Prouvaire’s shoulder once before pulling away; they exchange few words on days like this, for there is no need to. They orbit each other, reflect each other, communicate near effortlessly and give and take seamlessly, and Prouvaire is more than content to watch Combeferre from across the room this evening.

One by one, the others trickle in. Feuilly comes third, with Courfeyrac in tow, Enjolras not far behind. Bahorel stumbles in sometime before Gavroche makes an appearance, and a few other men join them, sitting at tables here and there. No one will focus, Prouvaire can tell that the moment Enjolras stands to address the group; Enjolras glances out over them and simply shakes his head, letting them all continue on. They are liberal with the wine that night, exchanging jests and promises and cheers, glad to be in the warmth and with friends. Combeferre drinks with Courfeyrac, and Prouvaire stays near Grantaire, who engages Bahorel in fierce discussion, both of them excited about something that Prouvaire is not listening to.

Usually, he would be  more focused, more aware. But Christmas comes in five days and there is a Yule’s full moon tonight, and Prouvaire can feel the moon in his bones, wonders what it must feel like on his skin. Maybe it will feel like silk, or like knives, or like water or smoke. Maybe it will feel like raw energy pouring into him and lighting him up from the inside out until he burst with it. Prouvaire slips out when no one notices and when he reaches the streets outside, he begins to run.

He runs and runs and runs, until his lungs feel as if they are pierced by ice daggers and his legs burn and his feet ache and he feels dizzy and lightheaded and he is in an alleyway by the river and there are no clouds and he lost his hat and scarf somewhere along the way- he’s thrown out his arms and he’s spinning, twirling, feet pivoting and hands reaching, hair whipping and coat billowing and his pants are damp and his feet are coldcoldcold and the moonlight does indeed feel like electricity. The moonlight does indeed feel like smokesilkwaterknives.

At some point, Prouvaire must have fallen, because he is lying in the muddy, trampled snow and laughing at nothing in particular, laughing so that his muscles ache and his throat feels raw. He lets out great shouts of sound, meaningless and feral and wild, because beneath the moon and sprawled in the snow, civility loses its meaning. It’s Yuletide, life after death, powerful and _old._

Maybe he is shouting poetry, or nonsense, or words in Hebrew or Latin or German, or snatches of songs he’d heard as a child. What it is that he’s saying does not matter; it’s the act of shouting that feels so right. He must be making noise, he must offer his voice up to the moon, he _must_ and he can’t explain why, he just knows. It feels right.

The snow beneath him begins to melt as his voice begins to go hoarse. The cold water seeps through his coat quickly, soaking  through the maroon doublet he’s wearing beneath it. The icy water burns his skin, and he shivers with the force of it. The cold feels good, it hurts, and then it fades, and he’s shaking and still smiling and he keeps letting out cries. Prouvaire’s clothes are no longer comfortable, sticking to his body and to the filthy ground, wet and frozen and icy and  scalding and sharp and numb and perfect. It’s perfect, it really is. It is ecstasy better than opium, sharper than blood, real and pulsing and oh so _powerful_ , and Prouvaire feels _powerful_.

Such poetry will come from tonight.

Such poetry.

He crawls into the stooped porch of the shop at the mouth of the alleyway, and flops onto his back. Prouvaire, out of the snow and lying on the dirty wooden slats, shifts and tosses until he gains back some semblance of warmth. The moon is white and the stars are silver, and everything is very very bright and clear and shimmering with a glow that could not possibly be anything other than ancient magyks. The night is stunning, but the pale sunrise has all the beauty of a rose.  Prouvaire must surrender to sleep, at some point, for when he opens his eyes, the sky is streaked with color, and the stars above him have shifted and fallen away. He barely even feels the cold.

-

Prouvaire does not come home that night. There is nothing worrying in and of that fact alone, for it is often that Prouvaire will stay late to stargaze or take walks, or visit small, smoky cafes or speak with strangers. Sometimes he will accompany Grantaire or Bahorel on their exploits, or trail behind Joly and Bossuet. No, being late is nothing to worry about. But it is cold, and there is snow, and Prouvaire’s warmest coat and gloves are by the hearth; if he is outside, then he must be very cold. Combeferre had half-expected Prouvaire to return home before he himself did, but the door had been opened to a dark room. There had been a moment of worry, but Combeferre has learned to trust Prouvaire, and worrying would do nothing. If he has not heard from Prouvaire in three hours, he decides, then he will start to worry. In the meantime, there are pamphlets to be written and essays to be read, Courfeyrac’s newest article to peruse.

Three hours, it turns out, passes very quickly, and Prouvaire still has not returned.

The bells toll eleven and Combeferre can just barely hear them from his rooms, and Prouvaire has not returned. It is too cold to sleep outside tonight, too cold and too windy and too close to Christmas to spend the night alone.  Combeferre pushes back his chair and sweeps the papers on his desk to the side, picks up the candle, and begins to pace.

It has not been an easy week. Between lectures, classes, shifts at Necker, and papers to write, Combeferre finds sleeping a luxury now. Schoolwork aside, 1831 is drawing to a close, and things are beginning to become tense, very tense indeed. There are whisperings that Combeferre and Enjolras chase like shadows of butterflies, deliveries of gunpowder that Feuilly and Courfeyrac oversee at midnight, bullets fetched by Joly and cloth collected by Bossuet. There has been so much to do, and more than anything, Combeferre wants to draw Prouvaire close to him and curl up together in the blankets on the bed. Stoke the fire, braid Prouvaire’s hair, be close and warm and discuss the universe together. Instead, Combeferre finds himself very alone.

It is the type of loneliness that settles like a dull roar around one’s shoulders after being alone for the first time in many days, the need to be close. And when tinged with anxiety and worry, Combeferre is moved by it to walk briskly around the rooms, again and again and again, hoping that each time he finishes pacing the perimeter, Prouvaire will walk through the door.

His feet are cold.

When Combeferre wakes up in the early morning, it is to a cold and half-empty bed.

\--

Courfeyrac and Marius are woken by a tired-looking and thoroughly determined Combeferre knocking at their door. Combeferre is willing to give Prouvaire the night to come home, but Prouvaire could be anywhere, doing anything, cold or alone or out doors or sick or hurt or dead and Combeferre simply will not stand for it. It’s not that Prouvaire can’t take care of himself; they all know that Prouvaire is more than capable of holding his ground, it’s that Prouvaire won’t stop doing what he’s doing until it kills him, and even then, Combeferre is sure that his spirit would carry on.

And so, Courfeyrac and Marius – and soon Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire – are all enlisted in the Finding of Jean Prouvaire. They spread out, checking bars and cafes and parks and all of the filthy nooks and crannies of Paris. Sometimes, they hear whispers of the shouted poetry carried on the wind last night, _what a ruckus, I couldn’t sleep for the noise, moon madness indeed._

The stillness of the morning feels suffocating; the wind does not blow, the snow does not move. Merchants are not yet out, factory workers are still getting ready, and everyone else is asleep. Combeferre cannot see a single stray cat on the street, the gamin lie still in the corners, all sounds seem muted. It does not seem possible that one as bright as Jean Prouvaire could exist in such a muted world. Combeferre pulls his coat tightly around himself and sets off at a brisk pace, racking his mind for probable places. A park, among the flowers? In the branches of a tree, perhaps? By the river? Prouvaire would want to be with nature, surely, with the full moon in her glory.

Bahorel joins him to search the river, and it is there they find Jean Prouvaire. Prouvaire is lying on the stoop of an abandoned shop at the mouth of a small and dingy alleyway.  Lying on his back, Prouvaire has spread his arms out, coat splayed out around him, looking every bit like an angel. He is watching the sun rise, a look of serenity and contemplation upon his face, but his body is shaking.

All night he must have spent outside, all night with only the skeleton of wood around him, all night in the snow, and the thought makes Combeferre ache with worry. Bahorel, for his part, merely snorts.

Moving quickly, Combeferre goes to kneel by Prouvaire and gently takes his hand.

“Hello there.”

“Hello,” Prouvaire murmurs back. “The stars were very beautiful last night, their incandescence illuminating insignificant individuals inhabiting innumerable worlds…” The words are marred by chattering teeth, and Prouvaire’s fingers are cold in Combeferre’s grip.

Wasting no time, Combeferre strips away Prouvaire’s damp coat and shrugs out of his own, bundling Prouvaire in the warm clothes. “You’ve caught chill,” he mutters, and Prouvaire only laughs at him, but the man settles against Bahorel’s chest as he is picked up. Bahorel frowns at the body in his arms, but little. Together, they get Prouvaire to Combeferre’s rooms, up the stairs and indoors.

“You should have seen it,” Prouvaire whispers as they place him gently on the bed. “It was magnificent.” And he closes his eyes.

Raising his gaze, Bahorel catches Combeferre’s glance and shrugs once. “Let him sleep,” the brawler mouths. “I’ll inform the others – stay here, someone ought to care for him.”

Combeferre nods his assent and places a hand on Prouvaire’s neck. Bahorel lets himself out.

Prouvaire is, Combeferre notes, warm to the touch. Too warm, and that is worrying. They’re lucky, of course, that Prouvaire slept out of the snow and was lucid when they found him; it could have been far worse, and Combeferre knows that they are fortunate.

Reluctantly, Combeferre pulls back, letting his hand trail across Prouvaire’s cheek in a chaste and tender touch before going to crouch in front of the fire. There are only embers burning, and Combeferre deftly adds a log, shifting the wood until it catches flame. Standing and turning around again, Combeferre lets his gaze linger on the face of the exhausted Jean Prouvaire and forces his shoulders to relax. Prouvaire is home, Prouvaire is safe. Combeferre makes his way to the bed, unties his cravat, and slides beneath the blankets, rubbing at his eyes and setting aside his glasses. He is asleep within minutes, pressed to his lover and curled together like kittens in the summer.

He wakes to the sound of coughing.

-

Prouvaire thinks he might be dying and oh, it feels glorious. The wondrous numbness of his limbs has abated, but been replaced by an aching pain that pulses through him, clawing up his throat and pushing against his ribs every time he sucks in a breath. Prouvaire lets himself lie on the bed, reveling in his misery, in the rattling of his breath and the throbbing of his head and the rough scratch of the blankets and the warmth of a body next to his – Combeferre. _Combeferre?_ Prouvaire opens his eyes for a split second before squeezing them closed again at the light. It’s too bright, and he’s in Combeferre’s appartments, that’s right, Bahorel had carried – _carried_ – him home, and Combeferre had stripped his coat and wet clothes and put him to bed. It’s all rater blurry, really, and Prouvaire’s skin feels like it’s crawling with cold.

And that’s when the coughing starts.  

It rips through him, tearing the breath from his lungs, coiling in his stomach and forcing itself out. It hurts, shredding his throat and lungs as he curls over and hunches around himself, and all that matters is the next breath, keep breathing, but he’s frozen, retching and wheezing and trembling and gagging on the wet rattling shaking his body. And Combeferre is there, thank the gods Combeferre is there. Combeferee, as he always has, offers a steady and worried sort of comfort.  Combeferre’s hands rest on his shoulders, rub his back, comb through his hair; the whispered words of comfort and query make no sense to Prouvaire, but they calm him, give him something to focus on as he struggles to breathe.

It seems to go on for hours, the coughing, although the sun has set no further by the time Prouvaire collapses back against Combeferre’s chest, exhausted and trying to catch his breath desperately. Combeferre presses kiss after kiss to his forehead, neck, shoulder, and Prouvaire lets out a rattling sigh of contentment. Just breathing hurts, and the warmth of Combeferre’s body is almost not worth the comfort it brings, but Prouvaire takes the pain in stride, explores it, files it away for later.

“I think I may be sick,” Prouvaire rasps, and feels Combeferre snort behind him.

“Astute. You’ll catch your death if you keep chasing it.”

“Being ill is not as glorious as they all made it out to be, you know,” Prouvaire sighs dreamily, and lets himself slump back onto the sheets. He is asleep again within moments, and this time, his rest is not dreamless.

-

The wet rattling of Prouvaire’s cough keeps Combeferre by his side throughout the evening. Prouvaire slips in an out of a fever, but it’s getting worse, and the coughing hasn’t stopped. Prouvaire will toss and turn in his sleep, restless and dreaming, Combeferre can tell, for Prouvaire reaches and mumbles, stammers and sings, and does it all with eyes flickering behind closed lids. More than anything, Combeferre wanted to prepare a dose of medicine, ease Prouvaire’s soft whimpers and awful coughing, but he knew Prouvaire would object. Prouviare, believing that even the tiniest thing must be felt, had stoutly refused him many times before, and yet…although Prouvaire would not be happy, his happiness was a small price to pay for his life.

Not yet. It hasn’t come to that, not yet. But there is a pit in his stomach and he can feel it sinking, churning with a sick worry. What if, what if, what if it _did_ come to that, what if Combeferre will only watch, helpless, as the person before him fades, if something goes wrong, if the cough doesn’t go away, if the fever gets worse – it would be _his own_ fault, all responsibility on Combeferre’s own shoulders, and – no. No, no, and Combeferre inhales slowly and tries to clear his mind.

Although Combeferre would tell very few people, he is terrified. A night spent outside – gamin have died from less: winter takes its cruel toll like no other. Anyone can see the casualties, begging or lying in the snow, and by all rights, Prouvaire ought to be worse off than he is. And Combeferre doesn’t know what to do, how to fix it. Blood-letting, compresses, Joly’s miasmas and minerals, tonics – surely, they would cause no harm. But there is no guarantee, and Combeferre yearns for that reassurance.

He forces himself to leave Prouvaire’s side for only a moment, to heat water. In it, he soaks a square of cloth and fever herbs, a compress for the person in the other room. In the bed, Prouvaire shakes, sweating in the sheets, mewling softly against fevered dreams. Combeferre folds the cloth deftly and presses it to Prouvaire’s forehead, wiping away the water droplets that fall onto heated skin. Prouvaire stirs slightly, exhaling through cracked lips, but does not open his eyes. Combeferre pauses like that, one hand resting on the crown of Prouvaire’s head, his other flat against Prouvaire’s chest, feeling his heart beat through the thin sleep shirt. He wants to lie down and sleep together again – indeed, the sun is only just beginning to set - but he knows that he can’t afford that. He can’t afford to not pay attention, because he might miss something, and it’s the same circles, the same worries all over again.

Combeferre realizes belatedly that he must have gripped Prouvaire’s hand tightly at some point, and pointedly unclenches his fingers. Dropping Prouvaire’s hand feels more solemn than it should.

A knock on the door interrupts his melancholy thoughts; Enjolras lets himself into the rooms quietly. He’d spent the afternoon and evening with Bahorel and Feuilly, speaking to the workers, checking contracts, and visiting print shops. Combeferre had doubted that Enjolras would already know of Prouvaire’s illness, and yet, Enjolras seems to fully expect Prouvaire to be curled up in the knotted sheets of Combeferre’s bed, buried beneath blankets.  Combeferre looks up sharply as Enjolras enters.

“Ah, Enjolras,” and it’s ineloquent: Combeferre looks exhausted, he _feels_ exhausted, but still, he stands to press Enjolras’s hand with a wan smile. “How did it go with the printer’s? I should have liked to accompany you – you have my apologies. Did you find someone willing to print-“

Enjolras raises his hand, and Combeferre falls silent, but Enjolras merely places his palm against Combeferre’s cheek. “Combeferre, quiet now. The printing will be taken care of – do not worry for me or for that. Prouvaire – how is he? Bahorel made mention of a night time outdoors. What can I do for…?”

Combeferre leans into the touch, eyes closing briefly. “Stay with me, just for a bit? He’s asleep, now, but he runs a fever, and when he coughs, there rattles fluid in his lungs. I am trying to sweat it out, but Enjolras, it is good to see you.” Combeferre takes Enjolras’ hand and leads him to Prouvaire’s bedside, yielding the stool to his friend and choosing to sit on the floor instead.

He feels so much _safer_ with Enjolras here, the doubt settling into a manageable waiting room dread. No longer alone, the shadows of the sunset no longer seem omens, Prouvaire’s breathing, although still labored, seems to rattle less. Resting his head against Enjolras’ knee, Combeferre allows himself to take comfort in the company. A companionable silence falls between them, broken only by their breathing, or the occasional word fallen from Prouvaire’s lips. Combeferre wonders, for a moment, what Prouvaire must be dreaming of for his brows to knit so. It is a look that Combeferre would hope to soothe with kisses and touches, were it not fever-caused and beyond his control. It all boils down to control, and Combeferr has very little, and so he tilts his head back and lets Enjolras run long fingers through his hair.

“Courfeyrac will come soon,” Enjolras breaks the silence. “He thought you might forget to eat, to take care of yourself. He promised, this morning after Prouvaire was found, to bring a meal and Joly with him.

Combeferre makes an agreeable noise and gets to his knees, pulling the lukewarm compress from Prouvaire’s head and pressing a light kiss to the damp skin there. Still asleep, Prouvaire reaches a hand to grab Combeferre’s, and so Combeferre brushes his lips against Prouvaire’s knuckles as well. As he heats the water again, Combeferre does not notice that Enjolras is blushing.

-

Prouvaire wakes up like the sun rises. He drifts into awareness slowly, drifting at the edges of his dreams, images and scents a bur. Courfeyrac and a bowl of broth, _“Is he eating? He looks too pale,”_ he _feels_ too pale, he feels like there is thread wrapping around his bones and tying him to Enjolras, who is falling from the sky as he holds hands with Combeferre, feathers peeling away from their wings as they plummet into a dark lake, still singing, and the cold lake water is full of decaying plants and twisting forms. Joly, eyes worried and expression kind, shadows from the corner of the room twisting into thick ropes that wind about Joly’s arms and body and neck, but then there’s a dove made of mist that flies through the closed window and chases all of the shadows away. Combeferre, changing his blankets and washing his face and pressing firm fingers into his neck and shoulder and taking his pulse, and then everything blurs out, he can’t see or hear or speak and he is alone, so alone, and he’s not getting enough breath, what if they don’t come back, what if, what – but oh, there’s Combeferre again, and everything is slightly less blurry, and Prouvaire opens his eyes.

He sits up too quickly, and everything shifts. He feels dizzy and sick and cannot stop the coughs that uncoil and tear through him, he can feel the wetness at the back of his throat as the coughing turns to gagging, and he throws out an arm to find someone, anyone, to know his is not alone. Combeferre’s hands are on him in an instant, soothing, and when he quiets, the awful wheezing has lessened. He can breathe again, not fully, but more so. Pitifully wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, Prouvaire blinks lazily and rolls over to face Combeferre.

“Hello,” he croaks, voice cracking.

“Hello,” Combeferre replies, and he looks rather relieved. It echoes the last conversation they’d had, and Prouvaire knows how afraid Combeferre had been for him. The guilt twists his gut – he hadn’t _meant_ to worry anyone, but the moon had been gorgeous. He would try and explain later, there would be time, and Combeferre would understand.

“How long was I…?” Prouvaire asks as he exhales, a near-whisper. Although he’s only just woken up, exhaustion seeps into Prouvaire’s body, a weariness that speaks of illness. He can’t finish his thought, his stomach churning and thoughts growing thick and sluggish again.

“Two days. You were lucid for some of it,” Combferre’s voice is soft, but Prouvaire doesn’t remember, can’t distinguish one dream from the next waking moment.

“I feel sick,” Prouvaire whispers, nausea curling in his stomach already. Rolling onto his side, he lets his head rest against Combeferre’s thigh. “And hot. Maybe cold. I can’t…can’t tell, I-“ his voice gives out again, and he misses the look of concern on Combeferre’s face as he lets his eyes close.

There is pressure under his neck and legs, and the world shifts alarmingly: Prouvaire finds himself being lifted and carried from the bed, blankets falling from him. Curled against Combeferre’s chest, Prouvaire can hear his pulse, and lets himself cling to Combeferre until he is set down at the table in the other room. The movement sparks another round of coughing, and when he can breathe again, he lets himself slump forward.

His body is too _something_ and crawling and sweaty and his head hurts and his lips ache and his throat is dry and parched and he has no appetite but he feels so damnably _weak_. “Do you think I shall die, Combeferre?” he asks, and regrets it the moment the words slip from him.

Combeferre looks positively stricken. But Prouvaire cannot take back his words, so a silence forms between them as Combeferre heats water. While the water boils, Prouvaire lifts his arms and lets Combeferre strip the loose shirt from his frame. The touches are intimate but not sexual, and Prouvaire hums slightly in contentment, just to see Combeferre’s drawn brows and pursed lips relax. It is only once Combeferre has dampened a cloth and is wiping the sweat from days spent in bed that he replies. “Jean Prouvaire,” he speaks solemnly, looking rather grave. Prouvaire shrinks slightly beneath him, unable to meet his eyes. “I would not let you die so easily. You are ill, but you will regain your vigor. There are tempests to sing through and languages to learn by candlelight and instruments to play in the company of friends. And I am here, beside you and next to you, and…” Combeferre trails off, spots of color high on his cheeks.

“I would not mind to die so much, but I do think I should miss you,” Prouvaire breathes, and Combeferre resumes his ministrations. “What do you think it would be like?”

“Dying?”

“Dying. It think it might feel like everything and nothing at all, together.” Pausing for breath, Prouvaire takes a deep breath. “It would be glorious. An eventuality we spend our lives struggling against,” he begins wheezing again, the strain of speaking too much for his sore throat. “And one only the gods manage to escape. The stars, Combeferre. Let’s become stars.”

Combeferre hums his thoughts, and this time, the quiet between them is warm. When Prouvaire is clean and dressed freshly, Combeferre helps him back to bed. The morning passes quietly – Combeferre reads aloud for Prouvaire’s benefit, and this time, his sleep is dreamless.

-

Prouvaire’s fever breaks pn Christmas. It’s late, and although people had stopped by to wish them well, they’ve all left, taking their wine and laughter with them. Enjolras and Courfeyrac are sleeping in the other room, and Combeferre wants nothing more than to curl up with them as he has so often before to sleep. Since the first few nights of Prouvaire’s illness, they’ve all taken turns sitting by his side, just in case something was needed. Enjolras had carefully arranged shifts to keep everything running smoothly, keep them all to their deadlines, but it is clear  to anyone that knows them that Prouvaire is their priority. Indeed, all of the lieutenants have been close, coming by nearly every night.

Prouvaire has been awake more and more often, flitting between merriness and melancholy as much as he ever had. He’s been improving, certainly, a far cry from the man who had been too weak to lift himself to cough, but the rattling hasn’t abated as much as Combeferre had hoped. The fever still burns at his skin, but over the past five days, he has not declined, and Combeferre takes that as a good sign. Prouvaire, sleeping now, completely still beneath the sheets save for his breath. There’s no fever-tinged distress, and Combeferre takes comfort in that.

With a kiss to Prouvaire’s forehead, Combeferre all but collapses onto the mattress he’s laid out for himself on the floor, utterly exhausted. There’s been too much that he’s responsible for, too much to do, and Combeferre’s bones feel heavy with it. Staring at the shadows of the rafters above him until he slips into slumber, Combeferre sleeps deeply, and wakes to find Prouvaire awake, and eating breakfast with Courfeyrac in the next room.

His first instinct is worry, but that is quickly replaced by relief. To see Prouvaire eating and out of bed, though he’s still sallow and thin, is heartening.

It’s Courfeyrac that notices that he’s awake. “Fever broke,” he says by way of explanation, and Combeferre grins so widely that his cheeks ache. He searches out Prouvaire’s gaze, catching his eye, and there’s a moment of calm between them, the voices outside muffled and the movement inside slowed, and Prouvaire’s going to be all right. It’s going to be all right. It’s all he can do to keep his steps even as he stumbles out of his bed and goes to clutch Prouvaire to him. Prouvaire accepts the embrace warmly, hugging Combeferre back, and Courfeyrac wraps his arms around them both. Enjolras ends up with them as well, and someone lets out a startled shout of laughter and someone else starts laughing too, and they are joyful and it is Christmas morning.

-

With urging from both Combeferre and Joly, Prouvaire doesn’t go outside until New Year’s day. It’s awful, being cooped up inside when there is so much happening in the world, and Prouvaire wants to see it all, experience it all. He compensates by touching up on his Hebrew, rereading old and well-loved volumes again and again, muttering out loud as he reads, until Feuilly comes after work. Feuilly brings one of the most recent pamphlets with him, things Prouvaire has missed while ill, and they discuss it for well over an hour. Feuilly is good company, and it is good to be able to talk with him at length again. More than good.  Bahorel drops by the next day, all robust laughter and loud words, and Prouvaire listens, enraptured, to tales of exploits and doubtlessly exaggerated valor. There’s a warm camaraderie to the conversation that Prouvaire finds again the evening after with Bossuet by his side, visiting only briefly on his way to his mistress’s rooms. That is a joyous visit, for all of its brevity, and Prouvaire smiles throughout most of the evening.

Grantaire’s visit is far more somber, and they spend part of the morning passing a pipe back and forth as they sit at the windowsill, shivering from the chill of the glass. The smoke aggravates Prouvaire’s lungs; Prouvaire leans on Grantaire longer than is strictly necessary, even when they’ve cleared the smoke from the room. Grantaire leans into the touch, playing with Prouvaire’s hair absently, and a melancholy envelops them both.

“Do you feel poorly today, my capitol R?” Prouvaire asks into her shoulder, and she nods, her stubble gently scraping Prouvaire’s forehead.

“I bought a skirt yesterday but cannot wear it, I purchased roses but could not smell them. I found a lady to dance with until I fell, exhausted, but still, I felt unwanted in my own skin.”

Prouvaire places a gentle kiss to Grantaire’s cheek, but they are silent until Grantaire leaves with a promise to return for dinner the following night. Neither have the proper words, but both of them understand.

And then there’s Combeferre, always Combeferre. Out of the house more now that Prouvaire is not bedridden, Combeferre still spends as much of his time as possible by Prouvaire’s side. They spend the nights curled up beneath the covers together, candles lit on the windowsill. There is never a chastisement, Combeferre never asks Prouvaire to take better care of himself, there is no “You scared me.” They both know that it would do little good; if Prouvaire is a bluebird, then Combeferre is not willing to ask him if he minds being caged.

-

New Year’s is a loud affair. Prouvaire is only hardly coughing, and deemed well enough to go outside, decides to walk with Combeferre to Courfeyrac’s. They are to meet at Courfeyrac’s house for a gathering; there will be more than enough room for them all, and it is looking to be a pleasant evening, truly; Prouvaire seems giddy with it as they walk through the streets.

“Look at it all,” he whispers, and grabs Combferre’s hand with joy. “Everything that could have died has died and everything else has lived, _lived_ , and it’s another year, we could be great, we will be _great!_ I could be dead and dreaming, but I don’t think I am, I would like to think that I’m here with you, and _oh!_ ” It doesn’t make a lot of sense, by any stretch of imagination; Combeferre arches one eyebrow fondly, and blows out just to watch his breath turn white before his eyes.

He doesn’t let go of Prouavire’s hand, even as they approach the door. They can hear Bahorel and Enjolras inside, and Feuilly is on the steps behind them, and the evening is everything that either of them had hoped.

-

The first snow of the year is the next day. When Prouvaire first opens his eyes, the world is soft and quiet and perfect, and so Prouvaire lies next to Combeferre in the bed they’ve shared and feels tiredsadsorry for reasons he can’t quite explain. And when Combeferre wakes up, Prouvaire kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. And so all, for the moment, is well.


End file.
